"For not making me explain. For knowing what I needed even when I didn't."
His arm tightened. "That's what this is. You and me. We show up."
Outside, Thunder Bay slept under fresh snow. Inside my parents' house, my father was dying in increments, measured in breaths and morphine doses. In Hog's bed, a man who'd chosen to sleep on the floor held me to stay close.
I closed my eyes and let him comfort me.
Hog's breathing deepened, evened out. Sleep pulled him under.
I stayed awake a little longer, memorizing the weight of his arm, the sound of his breath, and the certainty that he'd still be here when I woke up.
Not because he had to be.
Because he wanted to be.
It was enough. It was everything.
Chapter seventeen
Hog
The funeral home chairs fit normal-sized humans.
I sat with my knees jammed against the chair before me, trying to make myself smaller—impossible physics. My dress shoes pinched. The suit jacket Rhett had loaned me pulled tight across my shoulders. I'd borrowed it because mine was somewhere in the back of my closet, probably covered in cat hair from a neighbor's pet I'd never owned.
The air smelled like lilies, furniture polish, and something else underneath—formaldehyde, maybe, or whatever they used to make death look presentable.
I kept my hands clasped in my lap. If I moved them, I knew I'd knock something over. A hymnal. Someone's purse. The entire fragile ecosystem of grief that required silence and stillness.
Three rows ahead, Rhett sat between his mother and Sloane. His shoulders were rigid under his black suit—the good one he kept for job interviews he never needed. I watched the back of his neck, where his hairline met his collar, and tried to send him messages through the air.
I'm here. You're not alone.
He didn't turn around.
The minister spoke. I'd lost the thread somewhere around "loving father" and "dedicated craftsman." The words were generic and pre-packaged, like someone had pulled them from a template marked "Trades, Male, 60s."
I wondered whether Rhett's father had been a loving father.
Someone coughed. A child—one of Sloane's kids—whispered something, and an adult immediately shushed them.
I shifted my weight, and the chair creaked. The sound was deafening. Everyone heard it. They had to have heard it. The woman to my left glanced over, and I froze, willing myself into invisibility.
I didn't know how to show up for Rhett's father's passing. Didn't know the protocol for funerals or the right way to arrange my face into something that looked like sympathy instead of terror.
The minister said something about ashes to ashes. I thought about sawdust and how Rhett's hands always smelled like cedar.
Someone cried, soft, muffled sounds. It was Rhett's mother. I stared at my knees and counted the threads in my borrowed dress pants—anything to keep from looking around and catching someone's eye.
The service ended.
Everyone stood. I stayed seated a beat too long, then lurched upright, catching my knee on the chair ahead with enough force to make my eyes water. The people in my row shuffled past—polite nods and sympathetic half-smiles.
I waited and let everyone else filter out first. Less chance of collision that way.
When I reached the aisle, Rhett was already at the front, shaking hands with people I didn't know. His face was blank—not sad or stoic, just empty.
I wanted to cross the room and put my hand on his shoulder. Wanted to pull him away from the strangers offering hollow condolences and take him somewhere quiet where he didn't have to perform.
